


Psalms for Sleeping Angels

by SC_ript



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon Divergent, Castiel Has a Soul (Supernatural), Castiel Realizes Feelings For Dean Winchester, Castiel Saves Himself in This One, Castiel is Saved from the Empty (Supernatural), Coda, Dean Winchester Realizes Feelings For Castiel, Episode Fix-It: s15e19 Inherit the Earth, Episode: s12e09 First Blood, Episode: s12e19 The Future, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair, Season/Series 15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:33:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28722909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SC_ript/pseuds/SC_ript
Summary: There are words the Empty is incapable of knowing. Words that are too full, that contain too much. They cannot be bereft, and the Empty cannot grasp onto such substance. Words likefamily, likeforgiveness, likebecause.Likesacrifice.Words likeDean.On Earth, Dean mourns, and he continues to fight the good fight. The fight for free will, for choice. Dean rolls the pain, the exhaustion, from his shoulders, and he fights.And then the fight is over.In the Empty, Castiel sleeps.And then he wakes.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 187





	Psalms for Sleeping Angels

A phone rings. 

_Sam, it’s Sam._

Dean’s urgency is gone. He feels numb. He feels like Hell.

_Answer it. It’s Sam._

Dean doesn’t want to make a decision, but he must, he does, because he hears the phone clatter as it hits the ground. He is exhausted.

He thinks he may be crying. He sits there, sits so still for so long that he’s almost convinced it was him who was taken. This must be it. This must be the Empty. 

But the anger – _fuck, shit,_ the anger is still there. 

_You son of a bitch_ , he thinks. _You goddamn son of a bitch._

He’s not sure if he’s talking about himself. He’s not sure how long he’s been here, or when he’s going to pull himself off the floor. He doesn’t know. _That’s nothing new, though, is it?_ He’s not sure what he’s feeling. He won’t – he can’t think about that. He is sure that he’ll eventually get up. Because he has to. He’ll find Sam. 

He is sure that he’s tired. 

_Shit._ He’s so _fucking_ tired. 

_That’s nothing new, though, is it?_

* * *

This time, Castiel sleeps. The Empty churns, seething with reluctant insomnia. It prods at him, threads itself into his dreams, taunts that gaping place inside of him, that space absent of soul; still, Castiel sleeps.

In rare moments of lucidity – spiking hot, slicing deep into him – he realises, both slowly and suddenly, that the dreams here are different. Different from what he’s imagined dreams being, and different from his own jumbled, stuttering remembrances of his brief humanity. He does not experience the dreams, does not see them like pictures or watch them like fractured films. Instead, they are quiet – but there is no quiet, only lack. Lack of noise, lack of vision, lack of touch. There are no sensations. There is no cold Hell, no burning Heaven. There is Empty.

He feels words: words pulled from him, taken from him, and thrown back against him. 

Sometimes, they are his own.

_We’ve been through much together, you and I. And I just wanted to say, I’m sorry it ended like this._

_I owe you an apology._

_I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry, Dean._

_I’m going to find some way to redeem myself to you._

_I mean it, Dean._

_I’m so sorry, Dean._

_Who I was, what I did, that’s not who I am._

Sometimes, they are not.

_Honestly, I think you came off the line with a crack in your chassis._

_You know what every other version of you did? They did what they were told._

_You’re not in this story._

_You’re dead to me._

These dreams, they are all he knows.

_Dean, I thought I was doing the right thing._

_Yeah, you always do._

These words, they are all he understands.

_Something went wrong. Something always goes wrong._

_Yeah, and why does that something always seem to be you?_

This time, Castiel sleeps. It is not restless; it is without rest. It is not violent; it is without peace. It is not hateful, not cruel; it is without love. 

No – that’s not right. Castiel _loves_. Castiel _loves_. Even in the Nothing, he knows this. He _loves_ , and he sleeps. 

His love, it is his only true disturbance here. The Empty is weak, tired. It corrupts his dreams, but it does not stir him into wakefulness. His love, though, it whispers to him, wraps itself around the shell of him, and pushes him, gently, towards the surface; still, Castiel sleeps.

* * *

Dean wakes. He hadn’t meant to sleep. Maybe he didn’t. There were no dreams, he doesn’t think. He feels parched, his throat is sticky, and his face is stiff and dry, like the skin’s been thinly stretched. His neck aches. But his anger has abetted, slipping back inside of him, tucking itself away.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. His knees crack as he stands. He still feels slightly – submerged. He’s groggy, rough. _Shit._ It’s like he didn’t sleep at all. Maybe he didn’t. It’s hard to tell.

He’s got that hollow feeling, though. Like there’s nothing left in him. He’s got it all out. He hopes he’s got it all out.

When he looks, his phone’s just beside him. He stoops to pick it up, feels the stretch of his sore muscles. It’s dead. 

It’s dead. 

_Sam. When did Sam call?_

Moving slowly, like trucking through water, he makes his way upstairs, past the open, sigil-marked door. The blood is dark now, black like – like _it_ was, like –

He keeps moving.

There is a hush over the bunker, a vibration, humming in his ear. It’s all as it was, though. The books on the shelves, the chairs upright. Nothing to show for it, for Billie.

Dean wants to pull it all down, tear it apart. He’s just tired, though. He’s tired.

He moves up the stairs, step by steady step, until he’s at the door. _Now_ , he thinks, taking a breath. _Now._

He walks out into an empty, waking world.

* * *

Castiel has a memory the Empty does not know how to process. It is the worst of them and the best of them; it is human in its contradiction, and the Empty halts, stumped. It recycles old words, instead.

_Do you have any idea the death toll in Heaven? On Earth?_

_Because of me. Everything. All these people. I shouldn’t be here._

_Listen, buddy, you can’t stay._

But it grows bored. It decides to feed him the memory in ruined pieces.

There is a soul – but Castiel cannot see it. For all that he knows, and he _knows_ , that it is bright, that it is _the soul_ , that this is the Righteous Man, Castiel sees only Nothing. _That’s wrong_ – a lucid moment – _I was here._ The Empty cannot take this. This was the first, the beginning. Castiel was there, he was witness. He stood witness. _I saw him. I saw all of him. You cannot take this._

It does.

He does not hear the screams – he cannot hear here – but he feels them. Thousands of tortured souls, writhing beneath the hands of Dean Winchester. So much has been shredded.

_For what it’s worth, I would give anything not to have you do this._

Dean Winchester: Powerful. Dean Winchester: The Blunt Instrument. Dean Winchester: _You will not like what walks back out._

_I raised him_ , Castiel thinks. _Here._

_Now_ , he thinks. _Now._

The Empty laughs.

Castiel feels his hand reach for something, to grip tight to something. But he has no hand to reach with. Still, his hand comes up Empty, brimming with Empty, black with Empty.

_This is wrong_ , he thinks. _This should be something else._

But then the moment is gone, and he sinks back into the sleep, unaware, unremembering.

* * *

Dean is ten miles out of Lebanon when he notices. It shouldn’t have taken him that long, even, but it does. The dawn is just beginning to break. His grip goes slack on the steering wheel, and his eyes, which had been focused single-mindedly on the road in front of him, on the ground beneath him, on anything but – _that_ , begin to drift.

The cars – he’s been navigating through them, mindlessly, instinctively. There haven’t been too many – Lebanon is a small town – but there have been enough. Empty, all of them. Abandoned. Like their owners just up and walked away.

He notices that he has not passed a single person since pulling away from the bunker. It’s early, still. But that doesn’t explain the cars.

He had grabbed one of the burners from the trunk, and he pulls it from his pocket now. He dials. It rings once.

“Dean,” Sam says. “Where are you guys? I’ve been calling.”

“What’s happening?” Dean asks. “I’m driving and there’s just – no one. There are all these cars. Just empty, Sam – left on the road.”

“I don’t know. We don’t know. It’s, like, what was happening, what was happening with everyone else. Stevie,” he pauses. “Eileen. And then, we had everyone, _we had everyone_ , and then they were gone, too. They’re all gone, Dean. Bobby, Charlie. Everyone. The whole damn world, I think.”

“Shit.”

“Cas, did he feel anything? Was it Billie?”

“Where are you?” Dean asks. “I’ll come get you. Where are you?”

“Hastings,” Sam says. “We’re in Hastings.”

“Shit, okay. Wait for me. I’ll be there as soon as I can. It might take me longer. I don’t know what the roads are going to be like.”

“Be careful, Dean.”

Dean hangs up. He drives. And the roads, they’re crowded, but he finds a path. Like they’re all parting before him.

Chuck. Chuck and his freaking _writing_.

No speed limits, though. He stops for gas once. The station, like everything else, has been left to itself.

He makes it to Hastings by mid-afternoon, and he meets Sam and Jack at the intersection.

“It wasn’t Billie – it was Chuck,” Dean tells them.

“What?”

“Where’s Cas?”

Jack. Dean looks at him.

“Dean?”

Dean can’t. He can’t. He has to.

“He saved me,” Dean tells them. “Billie was coming after us, and Cas summoned the Empty. It took her. And it took him.”

_Don’t do this, Cas._

“Cas is gone,” Dean says.

It’s too much. Why does it always have to be them? Because Dad said it did. Because God said it did. Fuck them.

And Jack – Jack looks younger than he’s ever looked. Dean doesn’t know what to feel about that. So much has happened with Jack. Like a son, not like a son. Family, not family. Dean doesn’t know anymore. Jack was like a son to Cas, though. His face. Sometimes it seems like he was Cas’s son. And Cas – he was –

“Jack, I’m sorry,” Dean says. Because this wouldn’t have happened, none of this would have happened, if it weren’t for him.

But that’s all he can do. Dean can’t meet his eyes. _When Jack was dying, I made a deal to save him. The price was my life._ Jack knows, surely. Was he there? _When I experienced a moment of true happiness, the Empty would be summoned._ He has to have known. Has to know _how_ –

Dean doesn’t want to know. 

He walks away.

* * *

There is a memory the Empty pries from Castiel, plucks outs, examines. It is a lovingly marked memory, the corner folded down into a placeholder. It bears the evidence of gentle but consistent use, soft and rose-coloured, despite the fear that taints it. A strong fear. A fear that encompasses everything.

The Empty observes it and does not understand it. The Empty holds it, turning it over, considering. It cannot understand. It will not understand. It is old enough, though, has existed for long enough to know that, despite the terror that clings to the memory, this is one that it cannot give to Castiel. It would not be a dream; it would be an Awakening.

It is not the only memory like this. There are others, which the Empty gives perfunctory glance to, before picking them up and setting them aside. These will not be used either.

_An arm tossed over his shoulders._ It's been a long time since I've laughed that hard.

_A vehicle covered by tarp._ Sorry, but I'd rather have you. Cursed or not.

_The clink of whiskey glasses. A low laugh._

_A voice saying,_ We’re family.

They tumble out, and the Empty discards them in turn.

This one, though. This one is special, not for being the first nor the last, but for the awareness that it contains. Awareness of what, the Empty does not understand, but a commanding, forceful awareness all the same.

_There is a blonde woman. Castiel watches her from the passenger seat._ Seat belt on _, she says._ I drive fast. _It is sharply familiar, and he is hit with a painful reminiscence._

_They will find him. They have to find him._

_Mary drives them over miles of road, curving and unfolding and curving again. They do not speak much. There remains a bitterness in him about Mary. She is not what her son had expected – and Castiel knows, he understands, that she is not what Dean remembers. That she never was._ She is not John _, Castiel makes himself acknowledge,_ but she had married him, had wed her soul to his. Had loved him. _Castiel does not understand a lot about human love. But he finds this untrustworthy._

_The Rocky Mountain National Park rises around them, stretching the sky, held in a gentle frame of pine trees. Castiel appreciates it; even now, that trodden, crumpled Grace within him recalls songs of praise, which roll onto his tongue and ache to be made known._

_He swallows, and he watches Mary._

_Heaven, he knows, is fond of mothers. Motherhood, like fatherhood, is a holy and sacred role. And Castiel, with that dry, stoic humour, acknowledges the irony of her name._

_Castiel is reluctant towards Mary, but she is Dean’s mother. She_ created _him. Castiel would forgive a thousand sins. She did not make Dean what he is, but she is responsible for his very being. And, for all that Dean is different, Castiel sees so much of him in her. In her guarded eyes, her coarse jokes, her huffing laughter. In the upturn of her lips as she brings them, smoothly and quickly, around another sudden bend._

_She is beautiful._

_From the things Dean shared, in infrequent moments of open rawness, Castiel had suspected that Dean held more of John. That Sam was Mary’s boy._

I guess I’m not the man either of our dads wanted me to be.

_Castiel was wrong. Dean takes after his mother. Their mannerisms, their fierceness, their drive to protect. Their deep-residing, fortified love. Love that would force Heaven into Hell. Love that would drag an angel into the dirt. Love that knows_ sacrifice _, that bleeds it._

_Mary’s love is more selfish, her anger less righteous. But Castiel recognizes it, and he softens._

_The way that she regards Castiel, sometimes, brings him back to that old barn, sparks raining down, a knife driving, unfelt, into the cavity of his chest._

Angels can change, so who knows? Maybe Winchesters can, too.

_Mary messes with the radio, and the music pours out, tainted by static. She fiddles with the screen until loud, clear rock comes rushing over them._

_Castiel watches Mary, and – here, now, finally – he understands. Understanding settles over him, carves him open, expands into the emptiness of his being. That human love. He understands it, feels it, and has felt it, perhaps, for longer than he can address. Now, he recognizes it._

_It swells within him._ An answer _, he thinks._ At last, an answer. _To the questions, to the doubts that have built up during his years on Earth. It knocks away the foundation, sets a more solid, sturdier cornerstone. He sees himself, in that same time, he sees his every action, every decision anew._ Of course. _How had it taken him so long to put name to?_

_And, with this answer, comes another, an unsettling feeling that sinks blunt nails into him. Angels are warriors of Heaven; they are not creatures made for fear._ Fear not, for the Lord is with you. _Castiel’s instincts for self-preservation are cursory and easily dismissed. Angels fear one thing: the Fall. And Castiel has already fallen. So utterly, so terribly, so wonderfully._

_Castiel has faced Death before, many times. Has felt disappointed, betrayed, worried, angry, but has faced Death with acceptance, without fear. Now, it floods him. The fear, the terror – none of it for himself, all for something outside of him, something better than him – is overwhelming._

I cannot lose him _, Castiel understands. And he is sore afraid._

_An hour later, when they do find Dean and Sam, the fear eases, but remains, burrowing deep, comfortable within him._

_“Dean_ ,” _Cas says, desperate and relieved._

_“Cas_ ,” _Dean replies, coming to him, embracing him. “Hey, buddy.”_

_Dean moves to Mary, then, and Cas watches him walk away. Watches him pull Mary in, and sees them, together, mother and son._

_Castiel watches them with his fresh understanding, and he is wholly, sorely afraid._

* * *

Chuck has to come. Because Dean is done. He’s done with this. He has fought and he has fought, and he cannot fight anymore. He can’t just keep _going_. Going and driving, moving forward, on to the next. It’s all that he does. And Dean will not do it anymore. He won’t. So Chuck has to come.

And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? All they’ve done, all they’ve ever done, and it all amounts to this. Nothing. An empty world. And they’re still waiting for Chuck to make the next move.

But Dean will do it. He’ll do it. Kill Sam. Or let Sam kill him. He’ll let Sam kill him because Sam is stronger. He’s always done what needs to be done. Like he did with Rowena. That’s what they’ll do. Because they can’t keep letting everyone, _everyone_ else make the sacrifices for them.

And what’s it matter anyway? All they’ve got now is Jack and each other and an empty world. Dean doesn’t know what to be if he’s not fighting. And what he wants – that’s not something he can have. He knows that. He’s always known that. And nothing’s changed, now. Dean is still what he always was, and that’s no good for anybody. It’s all he is.

_It’s not. And everyone who knows you sees it. Everything you’ve ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love._

Chuck is there.

Dean is done waiting.

“First, you got to put everything back the way it was,” Dean says. “The people, the birds. Cas. You got to bring him back.”

“We’re surrendering,” Sam says. “We’re giving up.”

But then Chuck is gone again.

_Eternal shame, suffering, and loneliness. That’s a page-turner._

Dean’s not sure if they can even call this waiting anymore.

But they’ve got a long drive back to Lebanon.

* * *

The Empty is that from which all else was formed. There was Nothing, and from Nothing came God, and from God, Everything. All of Creation. A Fullness. An Existence. The Empty gave this, gave it all, and in return, asked only for sleep.

_I will sleep now_ , it told God. _I will dream. Give me your angels, your demons, all those absent of soul, and they will rest within me. For, like me, they are creatures made of Empty. They are made from me and imbued with the gift of your Grace. When they die, take back what you have given and return them to me. Together, we will sleep. They shall be undone, and we shall be one._

This was before there was the Word; still, all this was said and known and done.

The Empty, the Shadow, had slept nestled inside of itself, swaddled in its own Nothingness, for many eons. As angels and demons alike returned to their essence, to their Emptiness, they were joined in this eternal sleep. This void. For most of these creatures – after such an existence, after holding such sanctity, such blasphemy – this was Good. This was as it should be.

The Empty _gave_. The Empty _gave_ and _gave_ and _gave_. It asked only for _rest_. Not for death – but for that blessed _unbeing_.

_Let me sleep_ , it declared. _Let me sleep and never wake up._

Castiel was that cruel executioner, throwing open the windows. The Empty had not known Light, and then it did. The Empty had not known Darkness, and then it did. The Empty had not known Evil, and then Castiel threw _consciousness_ at it, _consciousness_ like icy water, like blaring trumpets and searing knowledge.

The Empty had been Empty, and then it had been awake. And then it had been _knowing_.

So, _happiness_ was not a feast to be devoured. It was a price. It was a punishment.

To the Empty, _happiness_ was an eye for an eye.

The Empty had met Castiel and felt that it had known him. _You have been asleep_ , it saw. _This is why you are not tired. You have never felt that wakeful living. Have your happiness. Let it awaken that within you, that Joy of Being. Have it. And when you have it, I will come. And you will know – you will know your long sleep, you will know what waking is, and you will know that pain which you have inflicted on me._

_Have your happiness,_ it thought again. _When you wake, I will come, and I will drag you back to sleep._

* * *

Dean ends up on the floor. Jack’s in his room, Sam’s in the library. Dean takes what’s left of the beer, and when that’s out, he drinks the whiskey straight. When it’s gone, he can get more. The world’s their oyster.

His fingers wrap around the bottle’s neck, push their fingerprints into the glass, and Dean thinks, _The very touch of you corrupts._

_When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost._

Dean takes a pull. It’s all too easy to think about now. It’s all he can think about now. For the first damn time in his life, he has nothing else to distract him.

_Nothing you could have done would have saved me. Because I didn’t want to be saved._

He gulps back another shot, feels the burn chase its way down his chest, and hears, _I'm hunted. I rebelled, and I did_ all of it _for you. And you failed. And I lost everything for nothing._

Dean sees Cas, his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Cas, facing the blackness with a gratified peace. Cas at his _happiest_. And then being covered, swallowed, taken. Gone.

_You failed._

_I lost Everything for Nothing._

The whiskey warms him. It tastes like anger. _Good._ Dean is angry. _That’s nothing new, though, is it?_

Dean is angry, and he hears, _You see he has this weakness: he likes you._

He hears, _Dean, I do everything that you ask. I always come when you call, and I am your friend._

_You’re just a man. I’m an angel._

_The one in the dirty trench coat who’s in love with you?_

Dean feels cold now. The floor is hard beneath his legs, and his back is propped up by the table. He takes another drink.

_Do you have any idea how hard it was? When I fell to Earth, I didn't just lose my powers. I – I had nothing._

Nothing.

Dean is pissed. _What did that asshole know about nothing? What did any of us?_ Dean pictures the world outside, silent and empty, and thinks, _This is nothing. That’s all there is anymore._

He should get up. At least get to his bed. But that makes him think of sitting on a different bed, in one of those run-down motels, with Cas on the one across from him. _I’m afraid I might kill myself_ , Cas says _._

Dean could throw-up. He might. He raises the bottle to his lips. Drinks. Swallows.

_I already apologized to you. You just refused to hear it._

_You couldn’t forgive me._

It’s fucked. There were so many apologies between them. Dean can’t remember the half of them. But he hears himself now. A dozen times over, answering.

_“Sorry”? It’s Armageddon, Cas. You need a bigger word than “sorry.”_

_I don’t care. It’s too little, too late._

_Thank you. I wish this changed anything._

_You can take your little apology, and you cram it up your ass._

_You’re sorry? Why didn’t you just stick to the damn plan?_

Dean’s not leaning against the table anymore. On his back, he stares up at the ceiling. He couldn’t say where the bottle’s gone.

_I left, but you didn’t stop me._

_Goodbye, Dean._

He never did learn his lesson, did he?

_Don’t do this, Cas._

Maybe he did.

_Don’t do this, Cas._

He did. That feels important.

Dean closes his eyes. He moves, turning on his side.

The truth is, Dean hasn’t slept, not since Cas left. Not after.

He sleeps now, though.

* * *

There are words made of Empty.

Castiel has no form here, but he is fed the word _fallen_ , and, for a brutal instant, his dream allows him to remember.

The Empty smiles as it forces him to chase _fallen_ with swollen words, with _flight_ , with _lightning_ , with _soaring._

Castiel has no form here, so he dreams its absence. He feels the absence of his shattered wings. The absence of his high-reaching, eternal form; the absence of his vessel, which had held him so well for so long. 

The Empty, arrogant and exhausted, finds these tired, well-worn words for him to swallow. Words like _fallen_ , like _forsaken_. Like _doubt_.

_Fallen_ is a word made of Empty, but Castiel has carried it, so proudly, so close to him, for many years now. 

_Forsaken_ is a word made of Empty, but Castiel has owned it, has forged it into his shield, his birth right and his namesake.

_I forgive you. Of course, I forgive you._

He has returned from it.

_Doubt_ is a word made of Empty, but it has been Castiel’s constant companion, his intimate friend. It has taught him, and it has led him out.

The Empty knows of hunger now. The Empty gives him these words, brings them into his dreams, believes they will sink to the pit of him, unsatisfying. These words are Empty, it knows, they will whet his appetite but not quench his thirst.

These dreams, though, these words, begin to nest within the familiarity of Castiel’s being. _You have filled us_ , they tell him. _Let us fill you, now._

Castiel sleeps. And then, shifting within the Empty, he begins to stir.

* * *

The truth. Dean didn’t sleep, that night in the bunker. He prayed.

_Cas._

Dean is leaning against the wall. He moves forward onto his knees.

_Cas._ A breath. He’s still crying. _You dick._

_I don’t know if you can hear me, man. Shit. I hope you can hear me. You son of a bitch. You dumbass._

_I thought it was such a win when we got Jack back, you know? I thought we were done keeping stuff like this from each other. I still can’t – Cas, this isn’t easy. I didn’t know._

_You’re my best friend. You’re family, Cas. But I thought – I thought that was all you wanted. I didn’t know, okay? Fuck, Cas, I didn’t know._

_You know me, though, right? You arrogant bastard. You know me? You have to have known – why would you say that? How could you think that?_

_The one thing you want._

_I thought you knew. After Purgatory, I thought you knew._

_I can’t do this, Cas. You’ve got to come back. You’ve got to make it happen. Because Chuck is still here. Because I’m still here. We need you. I need you, man._

_I’ll keep fighting. I’m going to keep fighting. But you have to, too, okay? No slacking off. If I’m up here, doing this, I need you to be fighting. No sleeping. You need to come back._

_I don’t know what’s going to happen here, with Chuck. If we’re all going to make it to the other side of this. If I’m going to make it to the other side of this. If I do, I swear – I promise, Cas. I will find a way to get you out of there. But I don’t know if that’s going to happen. I don’t know if that’s in the cards for me. If we see this to the end, that might be it. So, I need you to promise me. I need you to promise me, Cas, that you’re going to fight. Because no matter what happens, if we get the world back, it’s going to need you._

_The world needs every last Winchester it can get. Remember? You said that._

_You made a stupid deal, Cas._

Dean’s knees are starting to hurt. His neck is bent forward, chin dropped to his chest. He ignores it. He ignores it all.

_Do you want to know when I knew?_

_Do you remember, before Jack was born, when you disappeared? We had no idea where you were. And I kept calling, Cas. I kept calling, and you wouldn’t pick up your goddamn phone._

_I was so scared. I was so afraid, Cas._

_Do you understand? I didn’t._

_I was angry, too. I was so angry._

_And then you came back, and we could tell, man. Something was off. But you came back to me, with that damn mixtape, and I was just so relieved you were back, you know? I let you play me._

_And that made me mad, too. I couldn’t understand why that happened._

_But then we found you again. And Jack – he helped you, remember? With Dagon?_

_That scared me. If you could have seen yourself, Cas. You looked – I told Sam, later, that I didn’t recognize you. That wasn’t true. I did recognize you, and it scared me. Because you looked just like you did at the beginning. Before we knew each other. Before you knew me. Powerful. Distant. Untouchable._

_That scared me so much. And that’s when I knew._

_You healed me, that night. My arm. And I saw you, like for the first time again. An angel. And I know, I had known you were an angel. But – but you seemed so inhuman in that moment, after it happened. Like you had this greater purpose._

_And, shit, maybe I was jealous. I think I had got used to being that for you. That greater purpose. And to see it turned to something else – to someone else. I hadn’t realized what it was like, having been so a part of it. I hadn’t recognized it before. What everyone meant. How big it was, what you did for me. But then, I saw you. I saw you, Cas. You were – you were lit up by it. Glowing with it._

_You were gorgeous. But it wasn’t for me, this time._

_And that’s when I knew._

_I was scared, Cas. I was scared that I had lost you for good._

_Because you loved Jack, even then. And even then, you were willing to leave me for him. You left me for him, Cas._

_And I know that’s not fair. I think I know that better now. But that’s how I felt. That’s how I knew._

_And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Because you were a great father, Cas. Shit, you were a great dad. You were. We were both dealt shit hands in that department. But Jack wasn’t._

_I know I’ve never said it enough, but I_ am _grateful, Cas. If it weren’t for you – well. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know where we would be. Any of us._

_We need you to come back._ I _need you to come back._

_So, I’m praying._

_I’m praying, Cas. That’s a sign of faith, right?_

_I’ve prayed to God before. I wanted him to bring you back. But I’m done with that. I’m praying to you, now, you hear? You’ve got to find a way. I need you to come back to me._

_And Cas?_

_You have me, okay?_

Of course, _you have me._

_I’m sorry it took me so long to say it._

* * *

_I’m sorry_ , Castiel had told Anna once.

_No, you’re not. Not really. You don’t know the feeling._

But Castiel knows. Castiel knows now.

There are words the Empty is incapable of knowing. Words that are too full, that contain too much. They cannot be bereft, and the Empty cannot grasp onto such substance. Words like _family_ , like _forgiveness_ , like _because_. 

Like _sacrifice_.

Words like _Dean_. 

The Empty has heard of Dean. 

_I know who you love, what you fear._

But the Empty knows _Dean_ without inflection. Knows _love_ without inflection. 

And so it knows Nothing.

These words slip through the cracks of Castiel’s dreams. Unknown and unfiltered, they enter his broken chassis.

_Dean_ , Castiel feels. It curls into that space inside of him, that place made of Empty, absent of soul. _Dean._

And it begins to fill him; _it begins to fill him_.

* * *

Dean looks down at Chuck, at God. He feels the sun shining against his back, against his face.

“To die at the hands of Sam Winchester. Of Dean Winchester: the ultimate killer. It’s kind of glorious.”

Dean knows that this is the first choice he will make, with this new free will. It is a choice that will be entirely his. That he can own.

_You fought for the whole world_ for love _. That’s who you are._

_I love you._

“I’m sorry, Chuck,” Dean says, moving to join Sam. “See, that’s not who I am.”

* * *

The Empty is not made to hold souls; it is made for Empty. And souls are so _full_.

Castiel was not an angel privileged enough to bear witness to the creation of souls. It is possible, though unlikely, that there has been no angel granted such fortune, honoured in such a way. Chuck, though, is vain. He likes praise.

Still, the creation of souls has been safeguarded. It is a higher knowledge. And Castiel has come to question many things, but never this. Never the soul.

Because a soul is more than the Grace of God.

With angels, it is different. Being creatures of God, servants and soldiers born for obedience, angels are more like waiting chalices. Crafted carefully, beautifully, blessed with divine purpose. But Empty. Waiting to be filled. And Grace is poured into them. God’s own Grace. It is not all that they are, but it makes them what they are. The sentience comes later, and it grows apart from that.

Humans, though, beings of the Earth, are more than the wine itself. God’s Grace shelters the soul, guides it. And – Castiel has been led to believe – forms it. But Grace is not what souls are made of.

They are, simply, more.

We do not know what souls are made of. But they are made. They are forged. And they fill those blessed creatures who possess them with more than divine purpose, more than power, more than knowledge.

For now, Castiel sleeps; still, something is happening within him, being gently conceived, making itself warmly known. It is something too great to name.

Maybe souls are entities of love. Maybe souls are love itself.

Regardless, they are made. And they grow, and they fill, and they wake.

* * *

Dean steps out of the Impala. Sam is with him. And Jack – Jack is something else. Something new.

They’re back in Hastings.

Jack stands with them, but he feels separate. Apart from them. In a way that he hasn’t before. In a way that fiercely reminds Dean of a different time, before Jack was born. He’s not glowing, not quite, but he’s alight with _something_. He’s got his look on his face, this simple smile. Content. Happy. Awake with knowledge.

He’s the spitting image of his father.

“Alright, kid,” Dean says. “Do you really think you can pull this off?”

But Dean knows.

And then, suddenly, the world is breathing again. Like all this time, it was just paused between one inhale and the next. There are people. Moving, talking, walking. There now where there was nothing before. The damn birds are singing again.

Dean laughs. They did it. _Shit_ , they actually did it.

He moves. Walks to the sidewalk. Takes it all in. Laughs again.

He can’t stop looking around him. They really did it. It feels like there are people everywhere. Like the whole world is full again. He keeps looking around.

Sam is looking, too. His hand goes to his pocket to pull out his phone, but he’s left it in the car. Dean knows they’re both itching to get back on the road. To get back home.

Together, they walk back into the street. Where Jack is waiting for them with all the time in the world.

Dean is so _full_. He can’t believe it. He really can’t.

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen from here on out. He’s light in a way he hasn’t been in years. They could do anything, _anything_. Hunt. Go fishing. Take a goddamn vacation. It’s them, now. It’s all them.

But he’s still looking.

_Come on, buddy_ , Dean prays. _We had a deal, remember?_

Dean glances around again. He sees Jack and Sam, and all those people.

Then he smiles. Shakes his head. Tells that still scared part of him to go fuck itself. The world is theirs now. They did it.

Dean doesn’t know what’s going to happen from here on out. That’s nothing new, though, is it? And if there’s one thing he’s ever known, ever believed in, it’s family. It’s Sam. It’s Castiel.

And he has faith.

* * *

The Empty yawns, and Castiel turns in his sleep.

The Empty _yawns_ , and then it pauses.

It waits. Considers itself. And it feels a welcome tired. A tired that has been too long in the coming.

With an odd and absolving mercy, the Shadow carefully unwinds itself from Castiel. It feels blessedly heavy now. It gives a wide stretch, pushing itself to its infinite limits, and then it releases, retiring.

On the precipice between waking and sleeping, it has forgotten Castiel already.

The Empty shifts, settles. It blinks, once. Twice.

And then, finally, the Empty sleeps.

On that same precipice, Castiel turns to his other side. He can feel his form against the velvety blackness. The shape of him is held within it, and he is cool without being cold. His fingers twitch, and an unconscious hand comes up to rub at the crust in his eyes.

He is still dreaming, but it is slowly slipping away from him. With a low groan, he clings tighter to it, curling into himself. He can’t quite remember. It is beginning to get away from him, but he still feels himself inside of it. A happiness. A happiness like he’s never known before. He doesn’t want to give it up.

Castiel is an angel; he doesn’t have much experience with dreams, but he knows this is the kind that will follow after him in the day, weighing down his heels. 

Still, something pushes from within him. It is something bright and new, and when Castiel searches for it, reaching for that absent space within him, he finds that it is _full_. It is something he has never felt before, something which warms him, naturally, from the inside out. It is a part of him, as much as his happiness, and he feels a protective possession about it. That this is _his_. That this belongs to _him_ now.

It is kind, and it spreads over him gradually, from the core of him to the ends of his limbs. It traces up to his mouth, and a sigh escapes him. It touches at his cheek, then continues on towards his neck, brushing behind his ear.

_Now_ , it whispers. _Now._

He inhales.

There is a breath, a quiet peace, between unbeing and being.

It is in the tilt of the head, the trace of a tear, the eyes meeting in the second before _I love you_.

In the shuffle as a faithless man moves to his knees.

Castiel cannot remember his own creation. Angels have held host in his head since then; he couldn’t say when he lost it, only that it is lost, and it has been gone for generations. Still, he imagines that it must have felt like this.

This time, though, is different.

This time, Castiel is whole.

His soul rests within him, beckoning softly. _Castiel_ , it says. _Be not afraid._ And he isn’t. He gives himself a final moment to cherish the feeling. He exhales. And then, all at once, he _is_. This time, his eyes open, and he rises to stand.

This time, Castiel wakes.

**Author's Note:**

> The Supernatural lore surrounding souls is full of contradictions. I tried to keep this story as close to the canon as I could, but if you have differing opinions, I would love to hear them!


End file.
